


On Demand

by Isagel



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dominance/submission, Episode Related, Episode: s05e04 The Gift of Promise, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you pee on demand, Sergeant?" Lewis asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Demand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Toft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/gifts).



> I would never have guessed that I'd write watersports fic in this fandom, but when the opening lines of dialogue in this fic are actually canon, how could I resist? Especially after Toft encouraged me. And the thing is, I do think that this story works as a story about Lewis and Hathaway, so I'm pleased I did write it.

“Can you pee on demand, Sergeant?” Lewis asks.

James knows where the question comes from – it does, as far as content is concerned, fit naturally into the conversation – and the phrasing is merely his DI being his usual annoyingly facetious self, he understands that.

But he can't stop the way his heart skips a beat, the way he takes a step forward. Can't keep his body language from being aggressive, confrontational.

“I _beg_ your pardon?” he says, and it's slightly too loud, too vehement.

_(Try me. Make me. Go on._

_Please.)_

He hopes it comes off as affronted.

In the lab an hour later, he washes his hands afterwards and leaves the lavatory clutching his little container of quite likely arsenic-filled urine. Lewis is outside, waiting by the lab tech's desk. James's breaths are coming too fast; he wishes he didn't know better than to blame that on his case of mild accidental poisoning. He puts on his most obviously obsequious good-schoolboy smile and walks briskly forward.

“Sir,” he says, and hands the plastic jar to Lewis, who takes it on pure reflex. “As per your demand, sir.”

Lewis makes a face - there and gone, unreadable - and passes the jar on to the young woman in the white coat behind the desk without looking at the clear yellow liquid inside.

He does look at James, though. A long, sharp look _(sleeping in the knifebox again)_ that makes James want to fidget, want to turn away and hide.

What Lewis says, though - with perfect dry irony - is:

“Good lad, sergeant, you should keep that up.”

James's lips twist, along with something in his chest.

“I shall make every endeavour,” he says.

Lewis shakes his head.

 

* * *

 

He stands in front of the urinal in the station’s men’s room and counts out the seconds in his head as they pass.

At one minute, he feels ridiculous, regretting the whole idea.

At three minutes, he wonders what Lewis is doing, if he’s still talking to Innocent, if he’s getting restless. The thought makes his throat tight, makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

At six minutes, he’s simply waiting, eyes forward on the crack in the white tile that has been there unmended since January, arms at his side, fingers loosely curled. Apart from the way he’s conscious of his bladder, the pressure in it, it’s not that different from the stillness of kneeling on a church floor. He has experience with being still.

At nine minutes, the door opens, and Lewis sticks his head in, looks around, sees him. His gaze flicks down along the length of him, flicks back up.

There’s a heartbeat of silence. James can hear someone talking outside in the corridor, a policeman trying to calm a drunk offender.

“In my experience,” Lewis says, “that’ll end a lot better for you if you pull your zip down first. Get a move on, Sergeant. The witness won’t wait all night.”

“Yes, sir,” James says.

The door swings shut again just as he scrambles to get his trousers open.

 

* * *

 

“What’s the matter, Sergeant?” Lewis asks, throwing a glance at James in the passenger seat. “Didn’t get your morning dose of caffeine, or just that eager to get your hands on our culprit?”

James looks down at his own hand, suddenly aware that his fingers have been beating a staccato rhythm against his thigh. He spreads his palm flat against his leg and looks back up out the windscreen, at the rainy countryside blurring by.

“If you must know, sir,” he says, and he sounds like quite the snotty prep school bastard, but he can’t stop himself, “I’m finding myself in need of the little boys’ room.”

“Yeah, well,” Lewis says. “We can’t stop now. We’re cutting it close as it is, we can’t risk Evans having been at the farm and gone before we get there. You’re just going to have to hold it in, Sergeant.”

James presses his palm down against his leg, hard enough to hurt. Shifts just a little in his seat, feeling the fullness of his bladder. Feeling the awareness that he’s not allowed to relieve it.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, his sharpest tone of sarcasm. “I always treasure your words of advice.”

“Happy to help,” Lewis quips.

They both keep looking at the road.

 

* * *

 

It’s Saturday night near the end of term, and the pub is packed with people. A girl elbows James in the arm when he gets up from his seat, trying to squeeze past him to the next table. She flashes him an apologetic smile and clutches her drink closer.

James peers across the room towards the back, then looks down at Lewis in the bench seat opposite him.

“I’m going to make a push for the loo,” he says. “Wish me luck and send a search party if I’m not back before last call.”

Lewis wiggles his empty glass.

“Or,” he says, “you could get us both another pint. Seeing as how you’re already on your feet.”

“To be honest, I really don’t think I have room for another. Hence the daring expedition towards the men’s room.”

Lewis looks at him, looks at him. James shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Oh, I think you can manage one more before you go, Sergeant.”

It’s like a hot flush all over, his skin glowing with it, his belly heavy and full with it. About to be more filled yet.

It’s perfect.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and works his way through the crowd to the bar.

 

* * *

 

England are being quite soundly trounced by Pakistan when James excuses himself to go take a leak. This day of the Test match has been interminable, the quality of the game only mitigated by the number of beers he’s had and the fact that he’s been consuming them on his DI’s sofa.

He really does need to pee, quite badly, and yet, in the bathroom, he finds himself pausing, his jeans unbuttoned, his cock out, leaning one hand against the tiled wall on the other side of the toilet bowl. It’s such a good sensation, the moment of anticipation, just before. Better than usual, because of the setting. He lets himself rest in it, only for a moment.

The door opens behind him - he didn’t lock it, he realizes with a start _(What do you call a Freudian slip when it’s an action, when it’s the absence of an action?)_ \- and Lewis enters.

The normal thing to do would be to show outrage, anger at the breach of privacy. Instead he keeps still, waiting, his heart caught in his throat.

Lewis comes up to him, settles with his backside resting against the bathroom sink next to the toilet, so that they are side by side, obliquely facing each other.

“I think I might be a wee bit on the far side of pissed, here,” Lewis says. His voice is warm, soft, intimate in the small space. “So I’m going to need you to tell me if I’m over-stepping, James, all right?”

James could point out that he’s hardly sober, himself, but that would only blur the issue. He knows that he wants this, whatever this is.

“You’re not over-stepping,” he says. He looks away, at his hand on the wall, smiles to himself, thin and rueful. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that you have quite some considerable leeway left before you’re anywhere near the line.”

Lewis nods, thoughtful.

“Okay,” he says.

He reaches his hand out and places it on James’s stomach. On the stretch of bare skin where James’s t-shirt has ridden up, in the open v of his unbuttoned jeans. Palm flat, fingers splayed, directly over his bladder.

No pressure, just the warmth and presence of his touch. Just the knowledge that he must feel it: how full James is, how ready. James’s body has never been much more than skin and too-long bones - it’s there to be felt, just beneath the surface of his belly, the distension of his bladder palpable, obvious.

He is suddenly, disorientingly, hard.

“Sir,” he says, and he sounds very small, uncertain. He doesn’t know where the lines are located, either, no one drew him a map.

Lewis’s hand doesn’t waver, though. It presses in - steadily, firmly - and for a moment James thinks of arms holding him safe from fire, keeping him with a grip that left bruises, not letting go.

“If I were you, Sergeant,” Lewis says, “I would make that go down so I could take care of _this_.”

More pressure, and it almost hurts, but it feels so good - the compression, the _urge_ , the white-hot over-stimulation inside where the liquid in his bladder is driving down on his prostate, and he needs to come now as much as he needs to pee, the two imperatives commingling, feeding into each other. He lets out a shaky breath, a groan.

“Go on, then,” Lewis tells him. Gruff, and Northern, and gentle, and James would do anything for him, it’s what he does.

He wraps his hand around his cock, and strokes. Jerks himself off with quick, steady pulls, his eyes closed, leaning hard on his hand against the wall, against Lewis’s hand on his stomach, grinding himself against it, seeking the pressure. For a moment, a minute, he thinks he can’t do it, with his bladder this full, with the alcohol, but then all of a sudden he’s there, right at the edge, and he jerks himself faster, harder, desperate, and he’s coming over his fingers, into the toilet bowl, and there is a second when his vision whites out from the raw twist of pleasure in his gut, from the weight of it.

And then the need to piss hits him.

Savage, almost, and he’s still too hard, too hard to open for it. He makes a sound of frustration, his fingers scratching at the wall.

“Easy, Sergeant,” Lewis says, and he turns, his hip against the sink, and lays his free hand on James’s back, patting him through his t-shirt. “Wait for it. I know you’re a quick one, but you don’t always have to be in a rush.”

His hand on James’s belly eases up, rubs warm, soothing circles over James’s bladder.

James breathes, tries to relax.

“I knew I shouldn’t have had that last beer,” he says, and he’s mocking himself, because, really, from a distance, this is ridiculous.

Lewis snorts, a warm huff of near laughter against James’s neck.

“It probably saved me having to hear another set of five-syllable adjectives for how England are crap, though. This is Oxford, but I didn’t realize you were writing a thesis on the subject.”

“Oh, that’s very droll, sir.” It’s easier, with the talking, and he’s almost soft, now, he could probably... “Sir,” he says again, and there’s a question in it, a plea.

Lewis’s hand stills on his belly, pushes again, just a little.

“What happened to all them posh manners of yours, Sergeant? What’s the proper word?”

He shivers, all over. With the pressure, he can barely, _barely_ hold it in. Not for much longer.

“Please, sir,” he says, and if he manages to put an edge of sarcasm to it, it’s still more a desperate whine than anything. “May I?”

“Get to it, Sergeant,” Lewis says.

It’s a floodwave, a river-dam bursting, a torrent rushing through him, out of him. He’s dimly aware of the harsh tang of the beer he’s had in the scent of it, of the lush water sound when it hits the porcelain, but the sensation is what drowns out everything else. The flow of it through his cock; the aching, blissful relief as it leaves his bladder. Lewis’s hand holding right there, riding it, pressing in and further in as the swell of his stomach empties, flattens, as if squeezing the piss from his body.

He’s panting, afterwards, leaning with boneless heaviness on the wall, shaking out the last drops. He feels wrung out, peaceful, all that which needed to go washed from him in the flood. It’s beautiful, like the ache in his muscles after a morning on the river, but with another stillness, another grace.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that.

Then Lewis pats his back and slips his hands away, his fingers brushing James’s hipbone, sending a shudder through him before they’re gone.

“We should watch the end of the game, Sergeant,” he says. “I have a good feeling about the last innings.” A squeeze on James’s shoulder, an afterthought of reassurance. “Button up when you’re ready.”

And James is alone in the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Lewis is in with Innocent behind closed doors in his office when James gets to work the next morning. He can see them through the glass (hear them, too, or at least the Chief Superintendent - perhaps they’ve been displaying too much facetiousness in regards to Romantic poets again, judging by the tone of her voice), but his DI doesn’t catch sight of him.

He settles at his own desk, brings out his files on the Marsden case, and sets to writing his report.

He’s well into it when Lewis’s door opens and Innocent exits, her face somewhere between despairing of all mankind and entertained despite her best intentions. She graces him with a nod and a clipped “Hathaway,” as she sweeps past.

“Sergeant!” Lewis calls from his office.

James gets to his feet and goes to answer.

“Sir?” he says, stopping just inside the threshold. Lewis is standing behind his desk, hands on his hips beneath his pushed-back suit jacket. A position of annoyance.

“The Master of Balliol has been bothering the Chief Super. Apparently we’re not treating his problems with the gravity they deserve. I promised you would pop round and talk to him as one over-educated person to another, so could you please do that and _try_ not to make snide remarks about his precious first editions this time?”

“Ah,” James says. “I shall give it my best, but I’m afraid I can’t make any promises.”

“James,” Lewis says, fixing him with a sharp look.

James’s mouth is suddenly dry, and his palms are clammy, and he realizes that he has no idea how to do this, no idea what comes next. Not after where he was last night.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and starts to leave.

“Sergeant,” Lewis says, stopping him, and he half turns back in the doorway. “You look like you’ve had a rough night of it. You could use this.”

He picks something up from his desk and lobs it across the room at James, who catches it.

It’s a bottle of water.

“Can’t you?” Lewis says, and he sounds uncertain, worried, hopeful.

James looks up at him, and he’s smiling, a lot wider than he probably should, but right now he truly doesn’t give a toss.

“Absolutely, sir,” he says.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] On Demand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/497876) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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